“for you are in Elysium, and you are already dead.”

| Monday, 27th November 2023

I’m brewing a cup of “Boulangerie” tea from Tour de Tea and it smells wonderful…and it also smells like the Wednesday markets at uni. Yet again, I want to cry.

No matter how I slice it, I’m not home. I’m very far from home, my September City, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find a way out of here. Jericho Bay again, I guess. I’m aware I’m talking nonsense, or stream-of-consciousness…ing…there needs to be a verb for that…but I just…I don’t know. I just miss home. I miss uni. I miss jacaranda trees in wild bloom, I miss chocolate milk tea, I miss flat whites with four sugars and studying by the lakes, I miss hope. I miss possibility.

The tea tastes wonderful, as well…mild and comforting. I don’t want to pollute it with saltwater. I just want to go home, so much. It’s not a place, not wholly. It’s…everything. A feeling. Several places.

A friend visited me in 2018, and I’m so glad they got to see me at my…well, not my best, because my brain was being an absolute disaster for the majority of their visit, but. Me in my home. My September City at its best, the places I love. I wouldn’t let anyone visit me now, see me as I am, like this.

I should have gotten up and asked them to dance. I should have. I should have. I was two drinks down and I was still a coward.

Maybe I’m being negative and refusing to see anything good in my situation. I don’t think I am; there’s just so little of it here. And besides, being forced to thrive in a toxic environment is NOT a sign of happiness or health or anything of the sort.

Sure, there are possums. And stars. And a lovely wee dog who is a handful, but I love absolutely ferociously. But it’s not enough. It’s not home. I’m rotting at the core and it’s spreading outwards and outwards into the grey mist that is the future for me. I want to melt that mist, but I just don’t have the resources.

I have the willpower. I have the sheer bloody-mindedness. But I do not have the resources. Doubt I ever will. You can blame capitalism for that one.

a murmuration of starlings

| Friday, 23rd June 2023

I am…I am very, very tired, and very defeated, and I don’t want to fight anything anymore. My mother’s broken, my father’s broken, my brothers are selfish, I’m a disappointment to everyone, and I…am very tired. I just would like my mind to break, to set me free of this. I don’t mind madness; it lets you be fooled that everything can continue as it is and the car you’re in isn’t heading straightforward into a concrete pillar at 200km/h. When impact occurs, if your mind is already broken, you don’t even feel it.

Hope really is a fine killing thing. A slow, fine killing thing.

Literally the only thing that might fix all this is a lotto win. It all comes down to money. Even health can be bought with enough money. It’s vile to the extreme.
Unfortunately, none of us have any.

I’m too tired to be disgusted by that fact. I’m just too tired for anything. Golden hour passed like a dream and the sun has gone.

At least I had the dream, I suppose.

broken wings

| Sunday, 4th June 2023

I don’t know how things got the way they are…but I hate them. I hate this. I don’t know why it’s like this or why nobody fucking talks to one another to fix things and I just…I hate it here. Hate it hate it hate it so much.

and i hate
and i hate
and i hate
and i hate elevator music
the way we fight
the way i’m left here silent

I’m trying to write it out, to make sense of it, but the words are as caught inside like caged tigers, just like the tears. I’m so fucking tired.

I’m sad.

i can’t reach you

give me life
give me pain
give me myself again

non sum qualis eram.

| Wednesday, 6th October 2021

It’s not what I asked for;
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it’s all true
And now I’ve got you, and you’re not what I asked for
If I’m honest I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

Who’d be reckless — just enough
Who could hurt but who learnt how to toughen up
When she got bruised, and got used by a [girl] who can’t love
And then she’d get stuck and be scared
Of the life that’s inside her
Growing stronger each day
‘Til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little
To bring back the fire in her eyes
That’s been gone, but it used to be mine…

She was imperfect but she tried
She was good but she lied
She was hard on herself
She was broken and would not ask for help
She was messy but she was kind
She was lonely most of the time
She was all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie

She is gone…
…but she used to be mine

not tragedies

| Sunday, 12th February 2017

let there be coffee
and someone who wants to kiss me for hours
and will play endlessly with my hair
and won’t mind that I am silent quiet slipaway shy quicksilvery fey
and badly damaged
someone who can see past the smokescreen of okayness
who will not expect me to save them (I am flat-out saving myself)
where are the sparks
where are the fireworks (even one would suffice)
where oh where did the needle in the haystack vanish to
an ocean of fiftythousand
everyone exists except that one sliver of silver
of summerchance
and if I can’t find you;
then you probably don’t exist.

Stupid shit I wrote to a girl who doesn’t exist anymore.

| Thursday, 31st March 2005

No. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to decide I was flavour of the fucking month once again. You were meant to stay away. Stay away from me, and I was never supposed to think about you ever again, ever again. Bono’s singing don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…your gypsy heart, and don’t you know, he’s singing to me? Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, and don’t look back — but I do. I was never supposed to, but I DID!

Come on now, love — don’t you look back!

I looked back, I looked back, and again, you’ve torn me into shreds.

You…you goddamn bitch, you heartless…you have no idea, and you don’t care, do you. And here’s me, stupid, gullible little Kirryn-Arwen, foolish, naive, hopeful little me — hope isn’t the thing with feathers, don’t you know, hope is the nasty little bastard that chokes you with your own dreams. Hoping…what I’m hoping would have several people kill me. And you know what? I can’t fucking STOP IT. The little voice in the back of my head, my id, whatever, she’s screaming at me. She knows. Yes, she knows.

Hope has no place in this. None whatsoever. You’re not interested in me as a person. If you were to move here, you wouldn’t give two flying fucks about me. You never did. YOU NEVER DID. You lied to me, and you’ll keep lying to me. You don’t care, you don’t read anything I write, if I was hit by a bus tomorrow you wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t here. You just want another Australian on your flist, now that your obsession has flared up again.

I’m not Australian, I’m Scottish. And I’m not going to live here for much longer, I’m going to Ireland. I’m going to Ireland and I’m going to disappear, forget my own name, to become someone else completely.

You have no idea. You have…you’re ruining me. You ruined me three years ago, you ruined me last November (oh yes, I found out what you did, you and that bitch), you’re destroying me now. And you shouldn’t even…haven’t you read anything? Haven’t you looked around? This shows how much you care: 0%.

And me? Stupid, stupid, stupid little Subaru of this equation?

“I really loved you…Se…i…shi…rou…sa…n…”

Remember what I told you last year? Dreams can’t be. I know this. “Arwen didn’t think that.” You said that to me, didn’t you? You probably don’t remember or care. Yes, you did. But I’m not Arwen anymore. I’m not an Evenstar. You took away every shred of light that was in me and you don’t care. You’re not even going to read this. I don’t even know why I’m typing it all out. Because the tears won’t stop and Bono’s voice is tearing what’s left of my heart out and because I can’t stand it. So I can give my nasty little stalker bitches who hate my guts something to giggle at.

I don’t care. I don’t care.

I can’t stop it. Can’t stop my tears, can’t stop my heart. Can’t stop this goddamn hope, despite knowing how futile and poisonous it is. Can’t stop knowing that even if for one moment, a miracle occured, things looked up, they’d come down. Oh, they would. Crashing spectacularly. I know this. I don’t know it. I can’t stop.

Don’t turn around, your gypsy heart–

You should see what you’ve done, the scars you’ve carved on me. Don’tlovedon’tpushdon’tspeakoutofturndon’trelydon’tfeel. CANNOT LOVE. Cannot fall. Will not fall. Can’t break a heart that’s already broken. Can’t take a heart that was given away long ago.

–your gypsy heart–

My gypsy heart.

And you don’t care. You don’t care one iota; you’ll never even read this. While I sit here, bawling like an idiot, aching, this goddamn song on repeat. Don’t turn around? Too late. This post is going to get me in so much trouble, and I just…I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. This will pass, and so will time, and I’ll move to Ireland and forget. Or convince myself that I’ve forgotten.

I’m pathetic, because despite everything you’ve ever done, every lie you told me, I can’t…I can’t stop…mi ankoraux ami vi.

Seishirou-san…I lost the bet, didn’t I.

→

| Monday, 15th November 2004

I am…so tired. I’ve been crying since 5pm and it’s 1:30am now. Oneechan and Temiko are probably mad at me, and I deserve it. I am…such a crappy friend. I keep being snappish and horrible and selfish and gods…I just wish I’d stop. But I can’t, I do it unconsciously…that doesn’t justify it, though.

Thoughts keep rolling around in my head and just won’t stop. I tried to write, and failed. I tried to design something, also failed. My head aches and my ear aches and it feels like someone’s put a hole in my heart. The emptiness that was always there just…damn well exploded.

I just wished she’d had the fucking guts to tell me. “I don’t want to be with you, I want to be with Abby.” I wish I hadn’t found out like this. I wish…I just wish someone would love me. Love me the way “Celebrían” loved me, someone I could share all my secrets and my laughter with. I’ve been wishing that for so long.

I’m being all fucking emo, but I have no hope left. None. This has been the worst year of my life. I’m so tired.

I think I just might go to bed…meditate, pray my sorry heart out to Aset. If She can even hear me. My faith has taken the mother of all beatings. If there are any gods, any at all, why can’t They hear me? Why do They let things like this happen?

Love. Love. For love alone. Once I tasted the drug I couldn’t get enough.

Keep going. Keep fighting. Why? So I can get hurt again? But maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is karma paying me back for all the horrible things I’ve done, all the manipulative and sneaky and cowardly things I’ve ever done…

I hate myself. Hate myself…hate everything. But hate myself and the month of May, 2002, most of all. I wish I’d never met her. I wish to all the Netjer and the Valar and any other gods listening that I’d never fallen in love with her. I wish this pain would go away. It just gets sharper and sharper as the minutes pass.

Aset, Varda, please help me. Blondie, just hug me. I’m sorry I’m such a horrible little sister…and you, E…

…I’m so sorry for everything. It really was for nothing, in the end.